Breathe
by starbrightnights
Summary: 'The room is too small, all the air has been sucked from it, and in that moment, Jemma Simmons is convinced that this is where she's going to die.' Potential trigger warning: panic attacks, being trapped in small spaces.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is just a little two-parter that I wanted to get published before season two starts (of course, that means I'll have to make sure chapter two is up before Tuesday, but it's half written, so I'm confident...). I've already explored what I think could happen to Fitz, but I've never really dealt with any physical effects that could also plague Jemma.**

**I have to give a trigger warning, because this fic will be dealing with panic attacks, something I used to be quite familiar with (luckily not so much anymore), so I hope I've done the subject justice. **

* * *

><p>It happens before she even has a chance to stop it - one second she's watching Fitz from the other side of the lab, as he struggles to unscrew a small panel underneath one of the D.W.A.R.F.s ("Grumpy", she recalls him saying, and in another lifetime, she'd have made a joke about that), wondering when the right time would be to step in and help him, and the next Fitz's grip on the screwdriver has slipped, the tool scraping heavily across his hand, and he curses loudly, the little drone falling from his grasp and bouncing hard against the surface of the floor.<p>

"Fitz!" She doesn't mean to startle him, but he jumps all the same, turning away as she rushes towards him, his injured hand pressed against his mouth as he breathes deeply in an effort to calm himself down.

Jemma steps delicately around the damaged drone, its current state ignored, her priority the injured man right in front of her. She rests a gentle hand against his back. "It's all right."

"It's not," he replies, dejectedly, sinking against the table, his elbows resting on the edge, and his palms hiding his face.

A wave of guilt washes over her - she shouldn't have waited so long, but he's been adamant about doing everything for himself, doesn't like the fuss, and so most of the time she ends up anxiously floating around in the background, like some sort of rubbish ghost, waiting for the right moment to step in - but she knows she can't keep allowing him to be so obstinate, not when there's a constant risk of him hurting himself.

"It is." She pulls gently on his shoulder until he acquiesces and stands upright, then leads him over to a chair and sits him down. "Let me see your hand."

"Jemma-"

She waggles her own until he holds his out, and tries to ignore just how much his arm is shaking. "Hush. I'm going to clean this up, and you're going to stay exactly where you are."

Fitz smiles weakly at her stern voice, too tired to argue with her, which Jemma's thankful for, because he can be as stubborn as a mule when he wants to be.

She examines his hand, trying to ignore the feel of his skin against hers, how she all of a sudden wants to twirl herself into his arms and wrap herself in his warmth. _Focus_. His flesh is torn, and the wound is bleeding a little, but it's not deep, just a nasty scratch. "Right, then," she says, sweeping over to a drawer to fetch some antiseptic wipes and a plaster, picking up Grumpy as she goes and placing him safely out of the way. She pulls the drawer open, and then frowns as she stares inside of it, her stomach clenching a little. "I'll be back in a moment - I just need to fetch some more wipes."

Fitz's face moulds into a look of protest, and he waves his good hand at her. "No, it's fine, I'll just run it under the tap."

She smiles at him, one that falls somewhere between 'affection' and 'no-nonsense doctor', and she can feel how odd and twisted it is on her face, how odd it must look to _him_. So much has happened, they've both had so much to deal with, Fitz even more so, and the atmosphere between the pair of them hasn't exactly been as cosy and easy as it once was. It scares her to admit that they're damaged, but she's never going to stop helping him; she's never going to stop doing what's best for him, no matter how much he protests, no matter how distant she might seem at times.

"_Jemma_..."

"I won't be long," she calls back, already out the door.

She's barely at the end of the hall when her hands start to feel clammy. She wipes them on the front of her jeans, and tries to ignore the dread that's starting to claw its way up inside her. _You'll be fine - in and out, that's all it is_. But telling herself that doesn't stop her from feeling utterly hopeless, doesn't stop the quickening of her breath or the pounding of her heart. Jemma concentrates on her breathing - _inhale, exhale, nice and slow and deep_ - until she comes face to face with the door to the store cupboard. You can do this, nothing bad is going to happen. _It's okay. **You're** okay._

Trembling a little, she reaches for the door handle and pushes down on it, giving the door a shove - it's heavy, and she has to hold it open to stop it from swinging back, her eyes flickering up to the lights as they flash on as the sensor is triggered. She looks left and right to make sure no one is coming, that no one can see her hesitation and the fear she's desperately trying - and failing - to hide, and then takes a step forward, just enough so that she's properly over the threshold. Jemma taps restless fingers against the side of her thigh, the rapid movement and the pressure against her skin helping just a little to keep her on the right side of freaking out, and she inches slowly inside. The tiny room is far too cramped for her liking, far too oppressive, and even with the lights on, it's still too dark.

A quick turn of her head, and she finds what she's looking for - sort of. Something to stick between the door and the frame, because even though finding and grabbing a box of wipes will probably only take seconds, the thought of being shut in this room for even a moment is just too much for her to even think about dealing with. She reaches out and just manages to grab hold of a broom (and really, why is there a broom in here? It's not a cleaning cupboard), and wedges it in place. She can't let go right away - it's like she's wrapped her hand around a metal pole on a freezing day, and her skin has become stuck to it, unwilling to budge. Finally, though, she takes a breath and manages, not without some effort, to lift it away, thankfully without the aid of warm water. Her lifeline is detached. The anchor has been raised, and she's been left to drift across a dark, never-ending ocean, and if she doesn't do this quickly, she'll become lost in the fog.

Jemma hates that she feels like this. She knows why, knows the exact reason her body is reacting in this way, knows it's not her fault, but it doesn't stop her from feeling weak and vulnerable and _stupid_.

She feels stupid. Stupid and ridiculous, and she's never been either of those things. But, her skin is prickling, and she can feel hot salt in her eyes. She has no choice - Fitz needs her, and she has to get the supplies she needs in order to patch him up.

Bravely moving forward, Jemma quickly finds the box she's looking for, on the middle shelf of the second shelving unit she comes to, and is proud when she manages to pull out a few packs of wipes without dropping them, as well as grabbing the bottle of hydrogen peroxide she spots on the shelf below. This room really needs more organisation - it's a mess, as far as she's concerned, and it displeases her greatly to see things out of their proper order. Even so, she can't do a thing about it.

Jemma steps back from the shelf, clutching her supplies to her chest.

_See? No problem. Job done, and now you can leave._

Or so she thinks, because at that moment, the moment when she should be walking free again, something begins to creak, and she whips round just in time to see the door get the better of the broom, the brush sweeping across the floor, the handle moving up and away, and it falls in the opposite direction of the way she needs it to in order to lodge itself back between the edge of the door and the frame. Jemma lunges for the handle, sending the packs and the bottle she's holding flying as she does so, but she's not quick enough, and the door slams shut.

"No!"

She grabs the handle and pulls hard, but it won't open. "No, no, come on!"

How could it have locked? It wasn't... She hadn't...

Jemma tries again. And again. And every time she does, she feels her throat tighten just that little bit more, feels her heart attempt to make a desperate bid for freedom by forcing itself painfully against her ribcage. She can't breathe - oh, god, she can't _breathe_. She gulps down air, but she can't seem to force all of it into her lungs, and it makes her head spin. "Help!" She bangs on the door, pounds on it with the palms of her hands. "LET ME OUT!" The tears come, and she's sobbing and banging and struggling to breathe, her voice getting weaker and weaker and her legs no longer willing to support her. Jemma slides down against the cool metal of the door, but it has no affect on her feverish skin. Pulling her knees up under her chin, she tries desperately to control herself, but she can't, and the threat of hyperventilation panics her even more, until that's exactly what she ends up doing, her face flooded with tears and her fists clenched so tightly that her nails bite her flesh.

The room is too small, all the air has been sucked from it, and in that moment, Jemma Simmons is convinced that this is where she's going to die.

xxxx

Fitz hisses as he prods the skin around the wound on the back of his hand. He knows he shouldn't be touching it, but that's what everyone ends up doing, isn't it? No matter how much something hurts, no matter how much you know that it's a stupid idea, you just can't leave well enough alone. He wraps his other hand around the top of his wrist, as if the heat of it will somehow help ease the sting. For something that's barely more then a scratch, it doesn't half hurt. He supposes that it serves him right for pushing himself further than his current capabilities will allow, but if he admits to that, then that would mean he would also be admitting to the fact that he doesn't work as well as he used to, and he's not sure he's ready for that.

Jemma's been there, silently guiding him, even though she's... different. And he is, too, no matter how much he likes to tell himself otherwise. Things have been strange between them since he came back, and he's not surprised at all, but she's still there, and he's grateful for that. He's even more grateful for the fact that she hasn't mollycoddled him. He knows that she watches him when she thinks he's not looking, but apart from the odd occasion, she hasn't interfered too much, and that's been both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because he hates being fussed over, and a curse, because struggling makes him feel even more powerless, and then things happen, things like slicing your hand with a screwdriver and sending innocent drones smashing into the floor. Poor Grumpy - he hadn't deserved that. Fitz is certain he can fix him, it'll just take a little extra time. He shifts in his chair, and yawns. It could have been much, much worse, and he knows he's been lucky - he just has to keep reminding himself of that every time his arm fails him, every time he can't grasp a certain word. He remembers science, and he remembers Jemma, and he's eternally thankful for that.

This fracture between him and Jemma will repair itself in due course. It has to. No matter how long it takes, he refuses to leave it patched precariously together, criss-crosses of different bits of tape bridging the gap which was once one whole, seamless piece. To lose nearly a decade of friendship and partnership is unthinkable. They're stronger than that. He can't force her to talk about it, and he certainly doesn't want to make her even more uncomfortable than she already seems to be, but weaved amongst the ever present threat of danger, the future is full of possibilities, and he has to believe that they'll get there, because the alternative is too painful to even consider. Still, he can't help the pangs of hurt and panic that plague him on a daily basis - he's only human, after all.

Fitz puffs out his cheeks, air rushing forcefully from between his lips. He's pretty sure Jemma should have been back by now - the store cupboard in question is only up the hall, and it's not a huge one. He has a brief moment of insanity where he thinks she might have got distracted and forgotten about him, except that most of the team aren't there, and she wouldn't do that, anyway. Not that he'd blame her... Fitz quickly pulls himself out of that line of thinking, before he slips into self-pity, and makes a decision. No doubt she'll chide him for moving, but he gets up anyway, quickly rinsing his hand under the tap and dabbing it dry with a paper towel before making his way out of the lab to find her. Maybe what she needs is too high up, and she's spent the last ten minutes jumping up and down, trying to reach it. Fitz chuckles fondly at the image, and a little part of him can't help but be pleased that he might be able to do something for _her_, even if it is just reaching up with his good arm to grab a box.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Final part, just hours before season two starts - phew! Thank you for my lovely reviews - I will get around to replying to them individually, the last couple of days have just been a bit mad, and I've been working hard to get this finished. **

* * *

><p>She can't fight it anymore. This slow, agonising suffocation is consuming her whole, and she doesn't know how much longer she can hold on for. No one can hear her sobs, no one's coming. Fitz will be perched where she left him, waiting for her to come back so he can humour her insistence on cleaning his hand up properly. She doesn't know how long she's been gone for - time seems to not exist in this cupboard of hell. Everything is carrying on around her - the world is turning, people are living, but in here, everything is still, silent apart from her shallow gasping and choked cries.<p>

The room is getting smaller, and she's getting dizzier. The walls are moving, she's sure of it, moving in to crush her as the last of the oxygen is soaked up by everything that isn't her. There's an invisible weight pressing on her chest, and it hurts, but she doesn't have the energy to remove it, and she's sure that her heart is about to be squashed beneath it.

Jemma wraps her arms tighter beneath her legs, her fingers digging painfully into the back of her thighs as her whole body quivers. She's terrified. She doesn't want to die, not yet, not when she hasn't had the chance to talk to Fitz - _really_ talk to him. She wishes he were here, that she could at least seek comfort in the sound of his voice and the safety of his embrace, tell him that he's still her best friend, that she misses him more than anything, but she wants him trapped in small, airless spaces even less than she wants _herself_ trapped in them, which is, of course, not at all. Ever. And clearly, the sensors need a little more movement than she's gracing them with at the moment, because the lights suddenly cut out, plunging the little room into darkness.

She screams.

xxxx

Fitz jumps, his body jolting him backwards as a cry of unadulterated terror reaches his ears, and his stomach churns violently at the unwelcome familiarity of it. "Jemma!" He runs, as much as he's able to, tearing down the rest of the hall with an unsteady gait, his eyes wide with panic and his heart pounding. He grabs the handle as he reaches the door to the cupboard, his body bouncing painfully away from it as it refuses to budge instead of opening as he'd expected it to.

"Jemma!" He can hear her crying, can hear quick, shallow breaths that sound all too painful, and he desperately tries the door again, putting all his weight into it, but it's as stuck as a fly in glue. "Jemma, hold on, I'll be right back!" He doesn't have the time to think about what might have happened, all he knows is that he has to get her out of there, quickly, so he hurries back to the lab, grabs the correct screwdriver, and rushes back. He'd blow the thing, but he doesn't know how close to it she is. "Jemma, I'm going to unlock the door - I don't know if you're right against it, but the handle's going to fall off on the other side. Jemma?" She's not responding to him him all, and even though he can still hear her breathing rapidly, her sobs have quietened, and he instinctively knows that that's not a good thing, that it's not because she's calming down.

Fitz lifts the screwdriver to the handle, and thank god for his right arm being near-enough unaffected, because he's able to remove the screws fairly quickly, adrenalin pushing back his exhaustion and allowing him to work. The handle comes loose, and he hears a 'thunk' from the other side as its partner falls away and hits the floor. He sticks the screwdriver into the hole, and within seconds he's freed the latch and is pushing the door open, only it bumps against something, and he sticks his head through the gap to see Jemma pressed up against the wall with her head on her knees, shrouded in near-darkness, hyperventilating. It's not hard to work out that she's having a panic attack, and to his subconscious it's blindly obvious as to why, but it's filed away for him to deal with later on. He slides through the gap, and as he does, the lights blink on.

"Jemma..." He kneels in front of her, unsure of whether or not to touch her. "Jemma, I know you're scared, but I'm here, you're not alone."

Unfortunately, that seems to make her worse. A strangled whimper falls from her lips, and she gasps horribly. "No... No..."

"You're not in any danger," he says, trying again, speaking slowly and clearly. He's not an expert on panic attacks, but he's certain of the knowledge he does have on the subject. "And I'm not goin' anywhere, I'm right here." He puts a gentle hand on her knee, hoping that it will help to ground her.

Jemma reaches out and grasps his hand, clutching it in a death-grip, but he doesn't care about uncomfortable it feels, as long as it helps her. "What are you... No! You... Shouldn't... Be... Here..."

He's not quite sure what she means by that, but he carries on regardless. "Well, I am," he replies patiently. "How about we leave this room, take you somewhere more comfortable?" He glances about the space, noting how it's not that much bigger than that godforsaken med pod.

"Trapped... We're..."

Her violent trembles vibrate though his hand and up his arm. "Jemma, nothin' is going to happen, I promise. I know why you're frightened, but I won't let anythin' happen. Concentrate on your breathing - I'll help you."

"There's no... air..."

"I know it feels like there isn't, but why don't we try it, anyway?" Then he notices the broom lying on the floor. She must have used it to prop the door open. He grabs it, the small, frightened sob she gives as he momentarily moves away from her tearing a hole right through him. "I'm still here," he assures her, wedging the door open as quickly as he can.

It's like Fitz has hit her with a bolt of electricity. As soon as the gap widens, Jemma comes to life, scrambling unsteadily to her feet and then tripping forward, and Fitz grabs at her to keep her upright as she stumbles, disorientated and no doubt more than a little giddy. They both fall into the hall and against the opposite wall, and he inwardly curses at himself at not being able to hold her up as well as he needs to. Still, that doesn't mean he's not going to try his very best, with the aid of the bricks and mortar behind them, despite that fact that his arm is having its very own rave.

"Can you feel that? All that air? It'll let you breathe." Fitz inhales deeply through his nose, then lets out a long exhale through his mouth. He doesn't say anything else, he just holds her and prays that she picks up on his rhythm, that she falls in line with what he's doing.

Finally, he hears her take a deep breath, and the relief that washes through him at that small achievement is almost overwhelming. "That's it, you're doing really well..."

xxxx

Jemma had thought him a hallucination at first. She'd heard a noise, but keeping her face buried had only allowed her to imagine that it was the room, as it continued its torturous path towards her gruesome death. His calmness had confused her, his presence had panicked her - for he indeed was there, because in the back of her mind, she knew she couldn't touch a hallucination - and then when he'd opened the door wide, and she'd felt the tickle of cool air sweep over her as if she'd been dunked in ice, she'd bolted, desperate for more, barreling out the door with Fitz as he'd tried to hold on to her.

Her head is spinning and she's unsteady on her legs, like a fawn trying to stand for the first time. She's out, she's free - Fitz has once again saved her, only this time, he's fine, absolutely fine, but she still can't breathe, and she inhales painfully, desperate for the oxygen that's now surrounding her once more. Fitz is saying something, but she can't focus, and then suddenly, she hears him - her brain latches on to something he's doing, something repetitive. He's _breathing. _Well, of course he is, but he's doing so in a way that's making her feel calmer - a deep breath in, a long, slow breath out, and she finds herself copying him, joining in with his silent mantra, using it to pull herself away from the brink.

_"... You're doing really well..."_

She feels like a wreck, but she has no reason not to believe him, because it's Fitz, and he wouldn't lie to her about something like this.

Jemma can feel her body slowly right itself. Her head starts to settle, the pins and needles prickling her skin start to cease their attack, her vision begins to clear, and even though she's still trembling, she no longer feels as though her life is in danger, as if every single one of the particles that make up her entire being are about to be scattered in a million different directions.

"Jemma?"

Her fingers are curled around the open collar of his shirt, the material soft and soothing, and she tips her head up towards him, his face filling her vision. He blinks at her, then he steps back like he's been jabbed with a hot poker, his eyes darting away to look past her, and it's only then that she realises his arm had been around her, holding her upright. He's exhausted, shaking from the effort, and she feels terrible for it, but before she can speak, he beats her to it.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... I was just..."

She knows why he's apologising, and it tears a hole right through her. There hasn't been much physical contact between them since he woke from his coma. She's been so careful around him, but also uncertain and conflicted, and in her heightened emotional state, it doesn't take much to tip the delicate balance, a feather fluttering down onto one side of the scales, and the sobs she's been managing to hold down for the last few minutes force up her throat like a geyser. She doesn't want to do this anymore. She's both stronger and weaker than she's ever been, and it finally rips her in two.

xxxx

Her hands are pressed against his chest, her face is buried in his shoulder, and Fitz has no idea what to do with himself, even though the instinct to wrap his arms around her is just as strong as it ever was, even more so. What he does know, however, is that they both need to sit down. He's just about to suggest moving back to the lab, when Jemma sags, and he can't hold her weight any longer, so they sink straight down against the wall. She curls into him, and he keeps his good arm around her shoulders while he traps the hand of his other between his knees, and lets her cry it out.

It's not ideal, sitting in a hallway where anyone can walk by at any moment, but for now it's quiet, and really, he doesn't actually care all that much, because Jemma's crying like a plug has been pulled, and everything she's been keeping bottled up is being washed out on a tidal wave. For months she's confused him, and many times he's been almost convinced that she was actually fine, but those moments of doubt he's had turn out to be true, after all. She's not fine, he's not fine, _they're_ not fine.

Fitz is so lost in his own thoughts, thoughts of _her_, that when she says his name and startles him out of his reverie, it takes him a moment to focus on her. Her face is so close to his, and he can see every tear track, every small line of worry and stress. She's still beautiful, and he still loves her more than life itself.

He surprises himself with what he says next.

"Things have been weird, haven't they?"

"I'm sorry." She whispers her reply on a shaky breath, and he knits his eyebrows together.

"Why are you apologising?"

"I haven't helped." She looks so heartbroken that he almost cries himself.

"I do know why, you know. I mean, I was never completely sure if you were fine or not - you've become very good at..." he doesn't know how to word it, "hiding things," he finally settles on. "But I know why you didn't tell me - I know things haven't been easy." He glances down at where her hand is wrapped around his forearm. "How often?"

Jemma gives him a thin smile. "Often enough."

"And no one knows?"

She shakes her head. "Just you. Sometimes I can't even bear the lab, but that room was so small, and I know it's stupid, but every time it happens I just keep thinking that I'm going to die, and we-"

"-Shhh, it's all right," he soothes, as tears slip down her cheeks again, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out and runs his thumb under her eyes. Jemma places her hand over his, and he pauses, their eyes locked on each other.

"We can fix this, can't we? I don't want..." she screws her eyes shut again as a sob catches in her throat. "I hate this."

"I-"

"-Don't. Don't apologise. Don't... You did nothing wrong, Fitz, nothing at all."

He nods at her, his lower lip beginning to wobble. "C'mere." He draws her back into him, her arms encircling his waist. They spend a few minutes in a comfortable silence, something he wasn't sure they'd ever have again, and he rests his cheek against the top of her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair, the silkiness of it helping to calm him, even as a tear rolls down his face.

"I've missed you. I've missed your hugs. They were always the best."

Fitz huffs a laugh. "Not as good as they were, I'm afraid."

"Of course they are - it's still you."

He's genuinely touched. "I've missed you, too." God, has he missed her. It's been agony, and at one point, he was convinced it would drive him completely insane. "And, while we're admitting things..."

Jemma shifts and angles her head to better look at him. "What is it?"

"Well..." he takes a deep breath. "You know how I still forget little things here and there, that I have to really concentrate to remember them?"

She nods.

"I... Sometimes I can't remember your name," he says, quickly, although his voice breaks a little on the last word, and he winces as she inhales sharply. Whenever he has to grasp for things, places, words - every time he has to grasp for her _name_, his heart plummets into his stomach, because what if that's the time he never remembers it at all? "Not just yours - everyone's. It's not all the time, and I always know who you are - I _never_ forget who you are to me - but sometimes it takes me a moment, or a minute, to remember your name. I'll look at you, and it's there, on the tip of my tongue, and I'm _terrified _that it won't come to me at all. But it's not as bad as it was, I promise," he comforts her, as she stares at him with unnecessary guilty eyes. "I haven't forgotten anything else about you, about us. The Academy, Sci-Ops, that time I went to visit my mum for a couple of weeks, and came home to find you'd killed my goldfish..."

In an instant, Jemma's face switches from sad to embarrassed amusement, and she laughs, the pleasant, delicate chime music to his ears.

"Oh, god," she turns her face back into his shoulder, blushing at the memory. "Poor Schrödinger. And he got eaten by a cat, of all the rotten luck."

"It wasn't rotten luck, it was you going out and leaving the kitchen window open - I told you that stray in the alley was sneaky. He had no qualms about climbing five floors up the fire escape."

"Ugh, I know, I know. And you know how bad I felt about it, especially as, even worse, we could have been burgled."

"That would have been worse than the death of my beloved pet?"

Jemma rolls her eyes at him. God, he's missed that. Sort of.

"You won him at the fair, it's not like you went out with the purpose of bringing home a goldfish."

"Hey, we had a bond. Goldfish have feelings, too."

"You should get that printed on a t-shirt."

Fitz grins at her, a wide pull of his lips that shows all his teeth, and he realises it's the first time he's smiled in ages - _really_ smiled - without having to think about it, first.

Jemma beams back at him, and instantly looks more like her old self. Then she falters, as if she's just remembered something vitally important. "Oh, Fitz, your arm!"

"It's fine," he says, clutching it to his chest, the tremors continuing to plague him.

"It's not," she insists, sadly. "You're exhausted, and here I am making you sit on the floor. Come on." She removes herself from him and uses the wall to help her stand, still a little unsteady. She holds a hand out, and he takes it and lets her help him up.

There's a moment, then, a flicker of tension as they stare at each other. Something unspoken passes between them - he can feel it, and for the first time, he knows that she does, too. That's when he knows, for certain, that everything is going to be okay. But there's one last thing.

"Will you do something for me?"

Jemma nods. "Anything."

Fitz swallows, and takes one of her hands in his. "They won't just go away, y' know, the panic attacks. Promise me you'll talk to someone about them."

"Fitz..."

"_Promise_."

She studies him while she thinks, then agrees. "I promise." Then she hugs him again, and Fitz certainly isn't going to complain about the sudden onslaught of affection, although it does perhaps make him a little over-confident, because as he rests his head against hers, he brushes his lips across her hair, and then immediately freezes like a rabbit in the headlights, worried that he's just over-stepped the line and made things weird again.

However, Jemma doesn't move except to hold him tighter, and his eyes close in silent relief.

xxxx

Jemma smiles into Fitz's neck as she feels a gentle, warm pressure against the top of her head. Her stomach flips with anticipation of the future - she hasn't felt this excited since they first came aboard the bus, and it's such a relief to really feel alive again, instead of just pretending.

She leans away a little, and can't help but lift her hand to brush the backs of her fingers against his face, swiftly laughing at the quizzical look he gives her. "A little fuzz suits you."

Fitz's mouth drops open indignantly. "How dare- It's not _fuzz_."

Jemma takes his hand, "Still, I like it," and grins as he blushes, before wrapping an arm around him. "Come on - I'll put the kettle on."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It's okay, Fitz, Jemma knows it's hot stubble, just as we all do.**

**So, I went to the more extreme end with Jemma's panic attack, which, thankfully, I don't have much experience of, but they are terrifying.**

**I didn't want anything to happen between them at that exact moment, but I think I pretty much left it open to interpretation. Me being a massive FitzSimmons shipper, of course they finally get together, but read into it what you will.**

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
